


You were gone and I got lost

by Yukichouji



Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: And titles, Bad Writing, Because I can, Episode 2.6, Episode Related, How do I tag?, Humiliation, Hurt Jughead Jones, I spelled his name "Malachai" because that's what the fandom wiki says..., I'm Bad At Summaries, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Malachai is not a nice person, Not fixing anything just making it worse, Object Insertion, Protective Archie Andrews, Sorry?, but I tried guys, oh well..., srsly thoug why am I like this?, this poor kid, very little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-25 00:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yukichouji/pseuds/Yukichouji
Summary: Jughead has a bad feeling from the moment he lays eyes on the dilapidated, crumbling residential building at the edge of town. It fits in with the state of the other houses on the block, it being a bad neighbourhood even for the south side. But at the same time there’s something about it that manages to make it stand out. Maybe it’s the larger number of obscene graffiti scrawled across the flaking paint of the exterior. Or maybe it’s the overwhelming amount of empty liquor bottles strewn amidst the trash in the front yard and the glint of a needle or two that Jughead catches out of the corner of his eye as he walks past.





	1. The Devil's Den

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be *short*. And yet, a month and almost 19k words later, here we are...  
Because for some reason, after writing 9 pages of awful smut, I decided it would be a good idea to deal with the aftermath...
> 
> This is not a nice fic. Please heed the warnings and make sure you stay safe. (On that note, let me know if you think there's something else I should warn for.)
> 
> I, sadly, do not have a beta, my commas are all over the f**ing place, English is not my first language, and I will never not cringe at my own writing. So, even though I went over this monstrosity twice before posting I apologize in advance for any leftover errors and weirdness. If you enjoy this anyway, I hope you know I love you. I really do.
> 
> Comments are always welcome, if you feel like it. <3

~*~*~

Jughead has a bad feeling from the moment he lays eyes on the dilapidated, crumbling residential building at the edge of town. It fits in with the state of the other houses on the block, it being a bad neighbourhood even for the south side. But at the same time there’s something about it that manages to make it stand out. Maybe it’s the larger number of obscene graffiti scrawled across the flaking paint of the exterior. Or maybe it’s the overwhelming amount of empty liquor bottles strewn amidst the trash in the front yard and the glint of a needle or two that Jughead catches out of the corner of his eye as he walks past.

He silently vows not to touch anything as he carefully aims his steps through the clutter free patches on the way up to the front door. The place gives him the creeps and he has no idea why Tall Boy insisted on meeting here and not the White Wyrm. The whole thing stinks. Both metaphorically and literally.

He scrunches up his nose as he steppes through the front door into the shady hallway of the house. A kid with sunken eyes and yellowed teeth, thin as a rail and hands trembling as he gestures, points Jughead towards the basement. The door is askew and Jughead can hear voices and music leaking out amongst the candlelight flicker.

Walking down those steps feels a little like descending into a different world, dark and sinister and filled with demons. He won’t admit it, but he’s honestly relived when he spots Tall Boy, because at least he’s in the right place, at least he’s not alone. He’ll be damned if the words ‘Hell hole’ ever fit a place better than they do this dump. There’s an honest to God black coffin resting on a dinner table in the middle of the room, for crying out loud. Right next to a desk with all the makings of a drug packing stations strewn across it and a group of young men filling crystallized powder into brightly colored candy straws.

The air is thick with cigarette smoke and too many lungs using it up, too many bodies sweating in the unsteady light.

_Malachai_ . The head of the Ghoulies slinks out of the shadows like the devil himself and something in the way he looks at Jughead has all of his internal alarm bells going off at once.  There’s something wrong with his eyes, Jughead thinks, the short hairs on the back of his neck prickling upright.  They  seem darker than they should,  an eerie glint to them,  deranged almost.  Jughead resists the urge to pull his leathers tighter around himself, the jacket with the curling green Serpent on its back the next best thing to a shield.

Then Tall Boy springs his plans for having the Serpents and the Ghoulies join forces against the Northside on him and for a moment, indignation surges up and drowns out his unease. If there’s one thing Jughead knows he can’t let happen, then it’s the Serpents merging with the drug-dealing, uncontrolled lunatics that are the Ghoulies. The very gang responsible for the heat that’s fallen on the Southside, for the raid of Southside High and the flood of Jingle-Jangle that’s been hitting the streets and causing harm every which way.

The second thing he’s determined to avoid at all cost is an outright war with the Northside, because he knows damn well that there aren’t going to be any winners when the blood starts flowing. Only death and misery and people he still cares for, despite everything, getting hurt.

He doesn’t realize how dire things really are, tough, until Tall Boy finalizes his betrayal. Makes it oh so very clear that he doesn’t give a shit about what F.P. would have wanted for the Serpents and that he’s planning on taking the throne for himself.

“Things are changing, Jones. Either you change with them or suffer the consequences.”, Tall Boy rattles off, condescending and smug and Jughead tries to wrap his head around the shock of it, thoughts racing a mile a minute. He knew that Tall Boy wasn’t exactly his biggest fan, but he’d never expected the man to turn around and back-stab his dad like that.

“Evolve or die, Baby. Evolve or die.”, Malachai grins and spreads his arms wide, whiskey a swirl of burning amber in the half empty bottle in his hand. 

J ughead takes a reflexive step back but stops, when h e encounters resistance, his  shoulders bumping into someone else’s chest. A set of wide,  strong hands in finger-less leather gloves drops down onto his shoulders and Jughead flinches despite himself. Malachai grins up at him and takes another swig of his whiskey. The way his lips close around the bottle neck conjures up  unbidden images,  obscene and slightly nauseating.

Malachai leans forward in his seat and grins at Jughead, all teeth and no give. “I don’t think we’re done with you, yet.”, he hums, gleeful and giddy like a child regarding an interesting new play thing. Jughead swallows thickly around the dryness in his mouth and throat.

Without either of them taking their eyes off of Jughead Malachai and Tall Boy speak to each other.

“What do you say we give the Serpent price a little taste of what’ll happen if he doesn’t get with the program? In my experience people are so much more reliable if you give them the right kind of incentive.”, Malachai almost croons and tops it off with a wink. So over the top dramatic Jughead would scoff and make some sarcastic comment about it, if he weren’t so focused on the tightening grip on his shoulders or the other Ghoulies dropping their doings and slowly, curiously beginning to close in. His lungs feel dangerously tight and the air around him is growing thicker.

“Maybe you’re right.”, Tall Boy says without the same taste for theatrics that Malachai employs and drops back into his armchair like someone settling in to enjoy the show. It’s a little jarring with how much disdain Tall Boy looks at him.

That’s when Jughead knows he needs to get out of there  _now. _ The shoulder squaring rush of indignation is all gone, replaced by the  c old swirls of fear that slither in the pit of his stomach,  flutter and pull just behind his navel .  A sh ocky rush of adrenaline.  This is bad. 

Jughead tries to jerk out of the grip on his shoulders, but the Ghoulie behind him is prepared for it. Instead of getting free, Jughead gets kicked in the back of his legs hard enough to make them buckle and shoved forward at the same time. His knees hit the hard concrete floor with a jarring thud, pain shooting up his legs and making him gasp.

Before he can catch his breath there are hands on him again, one around his wrist, twisting his harm behind his back until the joints and tendons scream in protest and another at the collar of his jacket, pulling him upright so that he can’t fall forward to ease the pressure on his shoulder. Air whooshes out of his lungs in a pained groan and he tries to fight the involuntary tears that prickle at the corners of his eyes and the grip that holds him still all at the same time. Neither of those are fights he are ones can win.

Malachai laughs, delighted and raises himself up off of the couch, stalking forward like a predator until he’s blocking the light in front of Jughead. “Aren’t you something?”, he murmurs, almost as if to himself, thoughtful, and then that awful grin splits across his face again like a wound reopening.

Jughead kneels on the hard concrete, chest arched outward to try and lighten the strain on his shoulder and teeth clenched against the ache. Against the hopelessness of his position, against the awful unfurling knowledge that he’s completely alone and that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going, that no-one even knows to look for him at all.

The leader of the Ghoulies runs his fingers along the curve of Jughead’s jaw, traces the fresh, brightly colored bruises there until he reaches the cut on Jughead’s lip, scabbed over and still tender. Malachai presses his thumb against the it and Jughead sucks air hisses at the sting of it. His heart is racing, his thoughts a useless jumble and he doesn’t know what to do except meet Malachai’s stare with every bit of steel he can find in his bones. It does nothing but amuse Malachai more. 

The hand on Jughead’s face slips lower, fingertips ghosting across his neck and making him shiver, slipping just so beneath the collar of his shirt. Malachai hums as he traces his hand around to the back of Jughead’s neck, to the soft line of hair just below the hem of his beanie. When those fingers begin to slip underneath the wool, Jughead twists his head away and presses out through his aching teeth, “Don’t touch that.”

Malachai just laughs at him, sordid and mean, the flickering candle light reflecting in his eyes like Hellfire, and reaches out again. Jughead can’t avoid the fingers that twist into his beanie before yank it off of his head without further ado. A few strands of hair get caught in Malachai’s grip, the sting as they detach from his scalp highlighting the feeling of losing something vital.

Jughead feels _naked _without it and he knows he shouldn’t be this childish, but he can’t help the panic that builds like a wave in his gut.

Malachai holds the beanie up to the light and eyes it curiously. “What’s so special about this thing, huh?”

Jughead’s mom bought it for him when he was nine, on one of those rare days on which she’d actually looked happy, at least for a little while. They’d gone on a day trip to the lake with Jellybean and Archie and Fred and Mary Andrews but without F.P., who’d still been passed out drunk on the couch when they’d gotten ready to leave in the morning. He remembers how his mom had picked the beanie out for him, how she’d thought it was adorable because it looked like a little gray crown and the way her hands had smoothed it over his hair. The sun reflecting off of the water behind her, radiant and beautiful. He remembers clutching at it tightly and pulling it over his ears to block out the yelling after they got back home and F.P., already halfway through his fifth beer, had demanded to know why they’d left him behind.

That one memory blends into so many others. Him refusing to take the beanie off afterwards, even to sleep. Even when his dad got mad about it, going on about how it was stupid and childish and unsuitable for a boy his age. How his mom came home late from work one day with a stash of ten just like it after F.P. had yanked it off his head in a fit of frustrated, drunken anger and clogged up the garbage disposal in the sink with it and Jughead had refused to stop crying all night. How it feels almost like a part of himself now, like a second skin. A shield against the world, something to hold onto when the ground beneath his feet begins to shift again. Something to cover up that last little part of himself that no-one ever gets to see unless Jughead _wants_ them to.

But of course, Jughead says none of that. He squares his jaw and swallows down the words and the emotions attached to them like a bitter, viscous glob of cough syrup and tries not to choke on them as his fringe falls into his eyes. He’s not breathing right and he knows, in a detached sort of way, that that’s not good. That he’s going to hyperventilate, that he’ll make himself pass out, if he doesn’t do something about it, but he can’t help it. His vision is getting fuzzy around the edges and the only thing keeping him grounded is the pain in his knees and in his twisted arm.

Malachai’s grin only widens, showing more teeth than is good for anyone’s comfort and tosses the beanie aside like a crumpled ball of wrapping paper. Then his hand is on Jughead again, combing spindly fingers through Jughead’s hair like he has any right to, ignoring the jerk and shudder that starts at Jughead’s scalp and runs down to his toes at the touch. He hates it so, so much. Feels violated in a way he can’t explain.

The hand in his hair tightens into a fist and yanks Jughead’s head back. Jughead gasps at the sting and the suddenness of it, eyes wide and blinking away moisture. Malachai takes that opening to press the mouth of his bottle of booze against Jughead’s lips and tilt. As soon as the first slosh of Whiskey hits his tongue, Jughead presses his lips shut against the pour and coughs at the unwelcome bite of it. The cut on his lip lights up like a bonfire as alcohol spills over it and down his chin and he sucks in desperate breaths through his nose.

Malachai raises an eyebrow and pulls the bottle back. “What’s the matter? Serpent prince think he’s too god to have a drink with us dead? That’s just rude, Baby. We’re going to be working together, after all.”

The Ghoulie that’s holding Jughead in place lets go of the collar of his jacket and slides his hand around Jughead’s throat instead until he can press his fingers and thumb into the sides of Jughead’s face. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jughead can see the other Ghoulies gather closer, circle in like vultures, hears their excited chatter and rattling laughter.

Jughead fights the pressure, the insides of his cheeks mashed against his teeth, but this is another battle he has no hope of winning. As it gets too much, fingernails digging painfully into his skin, his teeth are pried apart and his jaw is forced open. Malachai leers down at him as he pushes the mouth of the bottle, cold and hard past Jughead’s lips. It clanks against Jughead’s teeth painfully and then Malachai tilts it up again and the burning, bitter liquid fills his mouth and sets fire to his tongue and the back of his throat.

Jughead chokes, coughs and sputters, tries to spit but can’t with his head tilted back like this and so, eventually, the only thing left to do is swallow. It’s a liquid slide of warmth down his throat and into his belly, spreading out from there to curl towards the tips of his fingers and into his cheeks. He slaps his free hand onto Malachai’s knee, tires to push him away, but the leader of the Ghoulies doesn’t budge, just laughs at Jughead’s feeble attempt.

When the bottle is empty, the neck of it is pulled from his mouth and the grip on his throat and face vanishes. Jughead doubles over coughing and sucking air into his burning lungs. He’s hot under his jacket, under his skin. Hot and flushed and kind of numb at the same time, dizziness spreading, like he’s floating in the middle of a huge body of water and his thoughts feel like molasses. Too thick and slow to make any sense of them.

There’s a clatter and a rattle, the sharp ring of breaking glass and when he looks up though lashes clumped together with moisture, he can see that Malachai has cleared the couch table with its glass top by carelessly sweeping the bottles and ashtrays and empty takeout boxes onto the ground.

His world tilts again, this time in slow motion and through a worrying fog. His knees scraping across the rough ground as he’s being hauled up and dragged forward until his upper half is folded across the grimy table top. Face pressed into the glass hard enough to make his bruises throb and with his arm still twisted painfully against his back, holding him down.

“That’s more like it.” Malachai exclaims dramatically and raises his hands in exaggerated triumph. His lackeys cheer and Jughead feels nausea mix in with the whiskey induced warmth in his gut. His gazes finds Tall Boy across from him, perched in his armchair like he’s sitting on a throne, knees spread wide and arrogant. Jughead doesn’t know why, but somehow he still hopes against hope that Tall Boy is on his side after all, that his father’s former friend won’t just abandon him like this.

All it takes, though, is one glance at the self-satisfied look on Tall Boy’s face to know that there’s no help coming, that Tall Boy is _enjoying _this almost as much as Malachai is. Maybe even more so and Jughead has to shut his eyes against the pressure that builds behind them, threatening to spill over and make everything worse. He refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

A hand runs through his hair in a mock caress, deceptively gentle and Jughead opens his eyes again to see Malachai’s face looming in front of his. From this close up Jughead should be able to make out every speck of color in Malachai’s irises but for some reason all he sees is black, two bottomless pits that spiral into empty space.

“Stay with us now, Lover Boy.”, Malachai croons at him, chasing a cold shudder down Jughead’s spine. “We’re about to get to the fun bit.”

Someone whistle’s suggestively amongst the hubbub, a sound sharp and shrill like a needle piercing his eardrum and Jughead’s frantic heart leaps into his throat as Malachai leaves his line of sight and steps behind him.

When Malachai’s hands snake around Jughead’s hips, fingers deft at his belt buckle, Jughead starts to struggle again, spurred into action by a fresh burst of panic. His free hand fumbles blindly across the greasy glass of the table top, looking for purchase, for something, anything to grab onto for leverage and he twists against the hold on is wrist and on his shoulder. Throws his weight into it, desperate, and feels the table rattle precariously underneath him, iron legs scraping across the concrete loudly.

“Get off of me.”, Jughead spits, squaring his knees and twisting away with as much force as he can muster. Which is still disappointingly little. His muscles feel wrong, heavy and clumsy and not entirely his and he’s slammed back onto the table so hard he sees stars. His bottom lip catches on his teeth as his face is pressed into the glass plate and the cut there reopens with a sharp burst of heat, bleeding copper across his tongue and pooling stickily onto the smooth surface below.

Malachai howls behind him, wolfish and inhuman and the sound is echoed by his followers. It’s eerie and chilling right down to the bone and followed by an uproar of deranged laughter all around. These are animals, not humans, Jughead realizes with a dreadful sense of helplessness, beasts of prey that have scented the first drops of blood in the water, eager for the kill.

The hands on his belt return, rough and impatient and the button and zipper of his jeans follow shortly after. Jughead sucks in a strangled breath, the sound he wants to make dying somewhere in the back of his throat, when his pants and boxers are being wrenched down to his thighs and he’s suddenly naked, exposed form the waist down and bent over in front of everyone.

His cheeks burn with the humiliation of it, cat calls and sordid laughter in the backdrop and Malachai’s breath against the shell of Jughead’s ear as he roughly smacks Jughead’s ass. The sound of skin on skin is obscene and loud and the sudden sting of it punches the air out of Jughead’s lungs in a startled grunt. He clenches his teeth, grinds them together as hard as he can to bite down on the words that are threatening to spill out of his mouth, on any other sounds he might make. He’s not going to beg, Jughead silently vows to himself, no matter how bad it gets, he’s not going to let them make him beg. If that’s the only thing he can hold onto, then he’ll do it with his dying breath.

“Slick!”, Malachai calls out. Someone whistles and hoots and out of the corner of his eye Jughead can see something arching through the air. Then the click of a plastic lid being opened and the cold dribble of lube onto skin that has Jughead hissing and trying to flinch away, but with no-where to go.

“See.”, Malachai’s breath tickles the back of Jughead’s neck as he speaks, conspiratorial, in a twisted mockery of intimacy. “We’re no savages. Maybe you’ll even get a kick out of this, hm Sweatheart?”

A hand traces after the slick, down, down until there are fingers circling Jughead’s hole. His hips jerk helplessly and he chokes on his next breath when one of the digits presses inside. Jughead freezes, every fiber of his being rebelling against the intrusion, fighting it. But the lube makes the slide deceptively easy and the resistance that Jughead’s body offers is meaningless.

Malachai laughs at him and keeps going, pressing deep and pulling back only to press in again. It doesn’t _hurt_, not really, it just burns, unwelcome, unwanted. A feeling that makes Jughead want to bite through is tongue and claw out of his skin to get away from. _W__rong_ in every way that counts. That one digit presses deeper into him than anything, _anyone_ else ever has, touches places he hadn’t realized he had nerve endings in and it feels amplified in size, bigger than he knows it can be. Taking something away form him he’ll never be able to get back.

His free hand clenches white-knuckled around the edge of the table top, fingernails scraping and bending helplessly along the slowly warming surface. When Malachai withdraws his finger and comes back with a second besides it, Jughead bites his lip as hard as he can, tries to use the pain there to distract himself from the stretch and burn. It doesn’t go as easily as the first did and already it feels like _too much_, like more than he can take and the deeper the fingers push, the less he feels like he can breathe.

Jughead whines deep in the back of his throat, unable, despite himself, to hold the sound in, as Malachai scissors his fingers apart, mercilessly pries Jughead open. Malachai’s breath, hot and moist, tickles across Jughead’s nape, the shell of his ear and he feels sick to his stomach, nauseous and spiraling and with nothing to keep him steady.

When Malachai withdraws his fingers and eases off of Jughead’s back, Jughead has a moment to desperately suck air into his burning lungs. His shoulder is burning and the fingers of his left hand are going numb in the nameless Ghoulies’ grip. He’s shaking all over, even though he hardly feels it. But he sees it in his right hand and he hears it in the clang of metal on glass, the zipper of his leather jacket against the table top.

Jughead can almost make himself believe that it’s over, that this was all the humiliation Malachai felt he needed to deal out to make his point. But there’s the plastic click of the lube’s cap again and the howling of the Ghoulies gathered around him picks up in volume as Malachai works behind Jughead’s back. He wants to twist around and see what Malachai is doing, but the pressure on his back becomes almost smothering, pushing the air out of his lungs and making it impossible to move.

The next thing he knows, Malachai has a palm on one of Jughead’s ass cheeks, pulling him open and laying him bare for everyone to see and then there’s something cold and hard and thick pressing up against him. It’s the neck of Malachai’s liquor bottle, Jughead realizes with a jolt and that’s when the panic really hits him.

“Wait!”, Jughead chokes out, rough and desperate and crumbling as the pressure builds. Breaking the promise he made to himself. “No. Don’t-”

His voice bleeds into a yell, when the mouth of the bottle pops past his rim. Instead of giving Jughead a moment to adjust, Malachai pushes deeper, relentless, merciless and this time it really does _hurt. _There’s no give, no softness or yield in the thick glass, making Jughead’s body open up to it through brute force alone. It’s too big, too much. Malachai hits the point where Jughead thinks he can’t take any more and just keeps going and Jughead feels something inside of his chest come loose, something vital and precious.

Malachai pushes until the neck curves into the width of the bottle’s body and its edges are pressed firmly into Jughead’s skin, until it won’t go any farther. Jughead sobs into the table top, spit pooling in with his blood and smudging it across the filthy glass. The intrusion goes so much deeper than the fingers did, he can feel it in his stomach, bruising, burning, a pressure he doesn’t know how to make bearable.

Jughead tries to detach himself from what’s happening to him, tries to make his mind go elsewhere, to a safe place where none of this can touch him. But he can’t get away, both the pain and the humiliation are too sharp, too immediate to escape from. There are too many aches pulling him back in sharply whenever he starts to drift away.

Malachai begins fucking him in earnest, the slide made too easy by the slick and still hurting so badly every time it pushes deep. The voices around him blend together like ink in water, words bleeding into syllables that make him feel dizzy and weak.

When Malachai changes his angle, the neck of the bottle shoves across something inside of Jughead that makes his entire body light up. A raw, painfully intense surge of pleasure mixing in with the hurt and somehow that just makes it tent times worse than it already is.

It startles another yell out of Jughead, body jerking helplessly when Malachai does it again, purposefully grinding the bottle neck against that spot. He bumps his hips into the edge of the table hard enough to bruise just to escape that feeling and Malachai looses his angle for a moment but then finds it again and just keeps going. Laughing and howling as he does.

Jughead chokes on a sob with every push of the bottle, every spark like a current shooting up his spine. His skin feels too tight, like it’s shrinking on his frame or he’s starting to expand form the inside out. Malachai kicks his legs further apart, as much as they’ll go with his jeans and underwear tangled around his thighs and his knees scrape against the concrete again, already raw beneath the denim.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s half-hard until Malachai makes a delighted sound and reaches around Jughead’s hips to touch him. The hand that wraps around him is dry and too tight and it shouldn’t do anything for him at all, but it’s still enough to make him firm up. Jughead grinds his teeth against the choked off whimpers, shocky, miserable little sounds, too embarrassed with his body’s reaction to do anything else but press his heated face into the filthy glass of the table top and shake apart.

“Oh, aren’t you sweet?”, Malachai whispers into Jughead’s ear, low and private, like he’s letting Jughead in on some ugly, deranged secret. “You’re so much more twisted than you let on. You can pretend like you’re better than us all you want, but the truth is you’re just as fucked up as we are. All you need to bring it out is a good and proper fucking.” Malachai shoves the bottle in so hard the width of the body knocks against Jughead’s tail bone and holds it there. Jughead screams, almost missing Malachai’s next words over the rush of blood in his ears, over how bad it hurts. “You’ll like it when our gangs join up. We’ll get to work together all the time and every time you fuck up we’ll put on a little show, you and me. Next time I’ll fuck you for real. And maybe I’ll let some of my friends have a go at that cute little ass of yours, too. We can get really creative, Baby. You’ll see. You’ll love.”

Jughead sobs openly now, gives up on trying to hold anything back, he can’t help himself and he doesn’t care anymore. Malachai pants into his ear, moist puffs of hot breath, sordid, revolting, as he grinds the bottle into Jughead’s prostate, little circular movements that send jolts of pleasure-pain right to his core and keeps jerking him off in tune to it.

Despite everything Jughead can feel the familiar heat of an orgasm building low in his stomach, just beneath his navel and he wants to fight it but he doesn’t know how. He comes with a shout that feels like broken glass in his throat and he’s never had an orgasm that hurt this much before. It’s a red-hot haze of agony as Malachai keeps fucking him through it, keeps applying pressure where Jughead’s nerve endings are on fire already and his whole body convulses against the coffee table.

He only realizes, he’s stopped breathing, when it’s Malachai stops and he’s finally able to suck air into his lungs again, almost choking on it. Jughead feels weak and raw, like an open wound. Dizziness filling the edges of his vision with static. The bottleneck slips out of him and for a terrible moment all Jughead can feel is the emptiness and the ache that it leaves behind.

The Ghoulie, who’s been holding him down lets go of his wrist and shoulder and blood rushes pins and needles back into his hand as he brings it around to clutch at the table top, disoriented and clumsy. As soon as he can feel his fingers again, Jughead reaches down and scrambles to pull his pants back up. His cheek detaches reluctantly from the glass, stuck to it with sweat and tears and a disgusting mix of saliva and half congealed blood. He’s shaking so badly, his fingers keep slipping on the belt buckle and he can’t keep track of his breathing. There are cooling stripes of his own spunk soaking into the bottom of his t-shirt, making it stick to his stomach, an inescapable reminder of his body’s betrayal. It’s disgusting but he can’t get away from it.

Tall Boy gets up out of his armchair and makes his way through the small crowd of Ghoulies that have gathered around them until he’s standing in front of Jughead, still on his knees. The traitor cards his fingers through Jughead’s bangs, then tightens his grip and uses it to tip Jughead’s head back until he’s staring up at Tall Boy. Jughead lets himself be manipulated, all the fight drained out of him. Defeated.

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you give me that attitude of yours, boy.”, Tall Boy grins down at him, pleased like the cat that got the cream and shakes Jughead once to make his point. “You’ll be good and do as you’re told from now on, won’t you?”

When Jughead doesn’t answer, Tall Boy tightens his grip in Jughead’s hair until he gasps and chokes out a fractured, “Yes.”

Tall Boy lets go of him and shoves Jughead’s beanie against his chest, before turning around and walking away. Jughead scrambles to catch it before it falls to the ground and pulls the wool onto his head and over his ears with trembling fingers as he stumbles to his feet. He ignores the Ghoulies laughing and jeering at him as he staggers through the basement, up the stairs and out of the house. The cool night air on his overheated skin is such a shock after the sticky, used up reek inside that it makes his stomach lurch.

He doubles over, clutching at the railing of the stairs and heaves onto the dead grass until there’s nothing but acid left in his stomach.

~*~*~

Jughead doesn’t even remember the ride home. Just that he got onto his dad’s bike outside of the Ghoulies’ lair and then the next thing he knows, he’s stumbling through the door to the trailer. He knows that should probably worry him, but the last thing he wants to do right now is _think._

Somewhere between then and now, the whirlwind in his head and chest winked out, that eerie sort of stillness that you find at the eye of the storm, and now all he feels is numb. It’s a treacherous, precarious kind of peace, like everything that just happened is still raging berneath and one wrong move, one wrong word or thought is going to bring it all crashing down. Jughead clings to that numbness by the skin of his teeth.

Stumbling blindly through the living area and past the kitchen, Jughead peals away his clothes as he goes, just barely resisting the urge to claw out of them. In the shower he turns the water as hot as it will go and scrubs at himself until his skin is pink and raw and the water finally runs cold. And even then he still feels like there’s an invisible sheen of filth covering him.

Once he’s stumbled out of the bathroom, he throws on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, one that’s old and comfortable, soft with wear, and crawls into bed. He curls up under the covers, warm and safe and familiar, hides away from the world like a wounded animal and falls into a deep sleep fueled by exhaustion.

~*~*~


	2. Bones decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the events of episode 2.6 loosely, up until the race.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were only here for the smut, this chapter probably won't be all that interesting to you. I won't blame anyone for skipping out on me now. This whole thing just took on a life of its own. Help.

~*~*~

Jughead jolts awake the next morning to someone pounding on the trailer’s front door. He has a moment of blind panic at the thought that it’s Tall Boy, who’s got another bone to pick with him, who maybe decided that last night wasn’t good enough to drive the lesson home. Until the part of himself that’s capable of logic kicks in and he realizes that Tall Boy probably would bother with _knocking_ when the front door isn’t even locked.

Right after that, Jughead remembers that he asked Archie to come by before school today to talk. Cursing under his breath, Jughead struggles to untangle himself from his blanket and heaves himself out of bed. He feels awful, aches and pains all over, tender areas like bruises _inside_ of him that make walking unpleasant in a very intimate, stomach churning kind of way.

He has to stop and take a moment, one hand clutching miserably at the arm of the couch, to catch his breath and collect himself. To reach for the numbness of last night and pull it back over him like a blanket and to make himself remember how to breathe again. He can’t afford to freak out right now.

Opening the door to see Archie stand there in his Letterman jacket, looking as he always does, if slightly annoyed, with the early morning light gleaming off his orange mop of hair is kind of jarring. The normalcy of it an almost irreconcilable contrast to the way Jughead feels. Archie looks like nothing happened, like nothing changed at all and it has Jughead reeling again. So at odds with the building itch underneath his skin that he doesn’t know what to do except stand there like an idiot and stare.

Archie takes one good look at Jughead and the expression of mild irritation morphs into one of concern and worry. “Jughead, is everything alright? Did something happen? You look kind of rough, man.”

Jughead makes himself take a couple of steps back to let Archie into the trailer and avoids his gaze, tries his best to deflect. “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t have the greatest night, that’s all.” Which is not technically a lie, Jughead muses bitterly, just somewhat of a euphemism.

“Jug.”, Archie’s voice sounds so soft and unsure that it makes Jughead glance back up at him. “Your hands are shaking.”

Jughead looks down at his hands and it’s true, their trembling and he hadn’t even been aware of it. He wraps his arms around himself, shoves his hands between his sides and his elbows in an attempt to make it stop. Jughead feels cold and small standing in front of Archie, his best friend for as long as he can remember, in the living room of his childhood home. Transparent, almost, like Archie will take one good look at him and be able to see right through to the core of him. To everything that happened last night. To the things Jughead _let_ them do to him, because he was too weak and too stupid to see it coming or to stop them. And if Archie does, he’ll never look at Jughead the same way again.

The thought tightens Jughead’s throat painfully.

Archie reaches out a careful hand, as if to try and comfort Jughead, worry and confusion shaping his features, making them look soft and young. And for a moment, Jughead has a vision of how things would play out, if he let Archie touch him now. If he let Archie pull him into a hug, warm and familiar and _safe_.

Jughead would crumble, he’d break apart at the seams, unable to hold himself together in the face of Archie’s kindness. He’d cling to Archie and he’d shake and cry like some stupid, overused cliche and Archie would be right there, solid and real, to hold him up.

And after that, after he’d cried until his face felt sticky and puffy, Archie would want to know what happened. Wouldn’t let up until Jughead confessed. And _then_, everything would go to Hell. Jughead hates that vision of himself with such vehemence it surprises him.

So, no. He can’t do any of that. Jughead takes a jerky step away from Archie, then another and Archie’s hand falls back to his side.

“Just give me a second to get dressed, alright? My alarm didn’t go off.”, Jughead mumbles, unable to meet Archie’s gaze, and stumbles off to the bedroom. He slams the door closed behind himself a little too forcefully and then leans his back against it. Stays there until his heart stops feeling like it’s trying to dig its way out of his chest.

~*~*~

Fully dressed, his beanie firmly in place, Jughead feels more like himself, more put together and as able to face Archie and the world, as he’ll get.

He tells Archie as much, as he dares. Looses himself in ranting on about how Tall Boy betrayed his dad and the Serpents. How Tall Boy plans on joining forces with the Ghoulies, how it’s more of a hostile take over than anything else and that Jughead _needs_ to stop that form happening at any cost. Even if it means going to war with the Ghoulies outright.

It’s funny how for once, Archie is the one to stay calm in the face of disaster and come up with the clever thing to do. Archie’s right, there’s no way the Serpents could survive war with the Ghoulies and going to see his dad to ask him for advice is something that hadn’t even crossed Jughead’s mind. He’s just not himself at the moment.

~*~*~

School goes by in a haze. Jughead can hardly concentrate on any of his classes and at lunch he tunes out of the conversations at his table so often, that eventually the few other Serpents just start to ignore him. His initiation, the Goblet specifically, is still fresh enough, that he can easily pass off any soreness to the aftermath of that. No-one asks him stupid questions about it and that’s just fine with him.

None of the Ghoulies he runs into are part of the group that was there last night, but that doesn’t keep them from sending him looks like they _know_ anyway, whistling suggestively as he walks past. Jughead ducks his head and does his best to avoid them all and to not hang around anywhere alone.

After school, he meets with Archie and they make the drive up to Shankshaw together in Fred Andrew’s borrowed truck. Jughead pretends like he’s dozing against the passenger side window just to avoid having to talk to Archie. He thinks Archie probably sees right through him, but Archie doesn’t say anything and Jughead is more grateful than he can say.

The solution his dad comes up with is completely outrageous. Jughead has never been in a street race in his entire life. He doesn’t even technically have a license. But he does know how to drive well enough, he’s had to get his drunk dad home from the White Wyrm safely more often than he can count, with no-one offering to help, and that was incentive enough to teach himself. He’s no stranger to doing it under less than ideal circumstances and keeping a cool head, either.

So, if this is what he needs to do to get rid of the Ghoulies for good, then he will. Even if the thought of having to face Malachai again makes him feel sick to his stomach, like he’s going to need to rush off to the restroom and puke out his guts for the fifth time today. Somehow, through sheer force of will, he manages to keep the remainder of his lunch down, though, and when Archie and he leave Shankshaw to head home, they have something concrete and sufficiently distracting to talk about. It’s late, when Archie finally drops Jughead off at his trailer, their plans made and waiting to be put into action.

The only question that hasn’t been answered, yet, is how they’re going to get the message to Malachai and his goons. Archie wants to do it in person. Jughead would rather slit his throat than set foot in the Ghoulies’ lair ever again. Even if there is no good way to explain that to Archie.

~*~*~

They could just call and be done with it, Jughead thinks desperately. Or go through Tall Boy even, the lesser of two evils, though still bad enough in itself. But in the end, Archie’s right, _again_. Jughead needs to do this and he needs to do it face to face or it won’t work. And he knows, in a way, that the longer he avoids confronting either Tall Boy or Malachai, the worse it’s going to get, when he has to. And he _will_ have to deal with them eventually. He just doesn’t really know how to do it and make it out whole.

And still, on Saturday morning, he finds himself back at the address Tall Boy gave him two days prior, unable to shake the crushing sense of foreboding, like he’s been sucked into the beginning of one of his nightmares. Standing in front of the dilapidated house at the edge of town with knees that feel too weak and a sick, nauseating kind of fear like a swarm of wasps in the pit of his stomach. Being here in broad daylight should make it easier somehow, he thinks, but it really doesn’t.

The facade of the house looks the same, ugly and broken-down, the perfect den for a gang of junkies. The only distinction being that now Jughead can actually make out the color of the exterior’s paint job. It’s a faded, sickly green that vaguely calls to mind images of rot and decay.

Archie gives it a short once over and wrinkles his nose in disgust. “How can anyone live like this?”, he mumbles under his breath. “You really weren’t kidding, when you called this place a ‘Hell hole’.”

Jughead snorts and manages a weak, “Yeah.”

Archie has no idea how right he is.

Jughead tries to take comfort in Archie’s presence, the fact that he definitely isn’t alone this time, no matter what happens. Tries to tell himself that the offer they’re going to make Malachai is too good for him to pass up just to humiliate Jughead again. Malachai may be a fucking lunatic, but at least he’s one with an eye for business, or so he’s been told. And if the Ghoulies really do love their rides as much as his dad said, that alone should be incentive enough.

That doesn’t calm the frantic flutter in his gut one bit, though. It feels a little like his intestines are developing a life of their own, slithering and twisting, choking in each others grasp. Like he swallowed a bucket full of live snakes, only slimier and a lot more disgusting.

“Let’s get this over with.”, Archie says, squaring his shoulders and looking determined as he heads for the residential. Jughead takes one last deep breath, shoves his hands into the pockets of his leathers so no-one will see how unsteady they are and follows Archie. Determined like a man walking towards his execution.

Just like it was Thursday night, the front door is unlocked and there’s nobody waiting in the hallway to stop them.

Descending the stairs to the basement, Archie a firm, solid presence ahead of him, might be one of the hardest things Jughead has done in his life. Including making the decision that he’d rather be homeless than watch his dad spiral and sit there, helpless, while his dad drank himself into an early grave and pissed away what was left of their life.

He keeps having to wrestle down those little bouts of intense panic that try to tell him it’s not too late to turn around and _run_. To just keep going until his heart gives out and to never ever look back. But Jughead will be damned if he’ll let himself abandon Archie like that. Through sheer force of will he keeps moving in the right direction.

Everything down in the heart of the Ghoulies’ lair looks exactly as Jughead remembers, etched permanently into the back of his brain. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, because so does Jughead, on the outside, with his serpent jacket and his beanie and nothing to show for unless you’d want to pry him open and look for the wrongness inside, for the stains and the broken pieces that don’t really fit together anymore.

Jughead scans the space, catches glimpses of familiar faces, ugly smiles flashed at him as they notice the new-comers, and Jughead forces himself to move on, to not let his gaze linger. The further they get from the stairs, opening up the space at their backs and making themselves vulnerable to having their one exit route cut off, the harder Jughead has to focus just on breathing.

In and out, short little bursts of oxygen that make him feel lightheaded and dizzy. Stupidly, Jughead imagines that out of the corner of his eyes he can see the walls of the basement with their cheep Gothic ornaments slowly closing in on them. Someone whistles and calls across the room, followed by a bout of laughter, but Jughead can’t make out what they’re saying over the white noise in his ears. He ignores them and keeps following Archie, his broad shouldered back the only solid thing left in the world.

When they pass the coffee table, Jughead tries not to look, he really does, but he can’t help it. His gaze is drawn to it like a magnet, lead by some sort of dull, morbid curiosity. There are still a couple of shards of broken glass scattered on the concrete around it, forgotten in the clean up, it seems, and the table itself has been re-cluttered.

A new congregation of half-empty liquor bottles, crumpled Jingle-Jangle straws and an upturned human skull (fake Jughead presumes) that’s serving as an ashtray are strewn about the table top. His eyes catch on a rust-colored, flaking smudge on the glass, near the center of the table and for a moment his stomach drops out and he feels like he’s floating in empty space, like that split second of zero gravity when you’re falling right before you hit the ground. And then he crashes.

That’s _his __blood_, Jughead thinks, frantic, incredulous, and there’s no way he can _not_ see himself, kneeling on the cold floor, bent over, cheek sticking to the greasy glass with Malachai draped across his back, crushing him. Fucking him with an empty whiskey bottle as he whispers filth into Jughead’s ear. The phantom taste of copper washes across his tongue and Jughead feels like he might be drowning in it.

Archie’s hand on his arm yanks him back into the here and now so suddenly it gives him whiplash. Jughead nearly jumps out of his skin, scrunches his eyes shut and desperately tries to shake the images.

“Come on.”, Archie whispers, close to Jughead’s ear and Jughead stumbles along with him, eyes snapping open, room spinning precariously. He needs to get a fucking hold on himself, now, or he’s never going to make it through this.

Malachai shows up ahead of them, standing behind the desk they use as a drug packing station surveying a box of Jingle-Jangle ready to hit the streets. He looks up at them with his ridiculous goth makeup and his skull patterned robe and his face lights up with an unhinged sort of delight at the sight of them.

Jughead doesn’t know why, but Malachai standing tall in front of him, that same horrific grin on his face, that same overconfident line of his shoulders, the perfect embodiment of a demon king amongst his followers, is what finally blows out that emotional fuse inside of Jughead. From one moment to the next, the chaos is gone, sucked away into a part of himself he can’t reach anymore, and all that remains is a treacherous numbness and a bleak, freezing sort of calm. His mind an ominous blank, Jughead lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, Archie’s hand still on his arm the only thing anchoring him in any way.

“My boy and I are here to challenge you to a race.”, Jughead says and it’s so strange to him how steady his voice sounds. Alien almost, like he’s only partly inhabiting his body, the other half, his conscious self, watching everything unfold from two feet away.

“Really?”, Malachai’s grin widens into a leer and he steps around the table towards Jughead and Archie, giving Archie a curious once over before his gaze returns to Jughead. “You’ve got some balls coming back here like this, _Sweetheart._ Are you looking for a repeat performance?”

Archie gives Jughead a sharp look, mouth halfway open, like he’s going to ask about it and all Jughead can think is _please don’t._ Whatever Archie was going to say, though, is cut off, when Malachai reaches out to wrap his hand around Jughead’s chin, fingers digging in sharply and making him hiss.

In a wild burst of action, Archie shoves Malachai hard enough to make him stumble back a couple paces, growling in a voice Jughead hardly recognizes, “Don’t fucking touch him!”

Using the grip he still has on Jughead’s arm, Archie pulls him back until Archie is standing between him and Malachai, shielding Jughead. It catches Jughead completely by surprise, this version of Archie being one he’s not accustomed to.

The atmosphere in the basement changes as abruptly as the expression on Malachai’s face, false joviality falling away to make room for the rising darkness, growing thicker, drawing in, like a vice being tightened. “So you’ve brought your own little guard dog this time, hm?”, Malachai draws himself up threateningly, hand creeping to the table and closing around a pair of scissors. The other Ghoulies, tuned into their conversation, fall quiet and move in closer, ready to spring into action.

“We’re not here to fight.”, Jughead forces out through clenched teeth, pushing at Archie until he’s not standing in the line of fire any more. Archie gives him an unhappy look, but lets Jughead do his thing. “Don’t you wanna know what we’re putting on the table before you turn us down?”

Malachai’s smirk returns and the hand on the scissors loosens a little. Jughead lets out a quiet breath. “Alright, I’ll bite. What could you have that we’d want?”, Malachai asks and raises his free hand to indicate the rest of the Ghoulies.

“Territory.”, Jughead says, just like they talked it over with his dad. “If you win, you get Southside High all to yourselves. None of the Serpents will interfere with your drug-dealing business there or bother you in any other way. We’ll roll over and join the Ghoulies. If _we _win, however, you back off and Southside High is ours, you stop dealing there. Plus, the serpents remain autonomous.”

“Are you sure Tall Boy is on board with that?”, Malachai asks, his tongue running across his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Do you even have the standing to make that kind of offer? Because it sure as Hell didn’t look like it before.”

“Tall Boy might have exaggerated his own importance a little.”, Jughead bites out, swallowing past the acidic sting of bile in the back of his throat. “There was a vote and Tall Boy lost.”

That isn’t technically true. Jughead hasn’t had the time to step before the Serpents and present them with his plan yet. But he has spoken to the younger Serpents at Southside High, the ones that aren’t currently in Juvy at leas, about his plans and they were all for it. None of them like the Ghoulies very much. And he’s pretty confident, that he can get the rest of the Serpents on board with his plans, as well, even with some of his allies missing. The Serpents are out-manned and if Jughead can offer them a way to keep their sovereignty anyway, he doesn’t see them turning him down. Even as risky, as it is, his plan is still better than being all but sold out to the Ghoulies by Tall Boy.

The only hitch in his plan, is that setting foot in the White Wyrm means he’ll have to face Tall Boy. He’ll have to look him in the eye and stand his ground and he’s been avoiding thinking about that as much as he can. Right now, he has to get through this and then he can start worrying about what comes after.

“Well,”, leaning down towards Jughead until their eyes are level Malachai continues. “I don’t think it’s going to be enough either way. Unless _your highness _is willing to put some of his daddy’s territory on the table, I got no reason to be in this race.”

Jughead takes a breath to reply, but is cut off, when the door to the cellar bursts open and Betty and Veronica, of all people, stumble down the stairs, herded by a tall, broad-shouldered Ghoulie, who is clearly not amused.

“They were following me! Tried to get into the garage.”, he tells Malachai and shoves them forward.

Betty, Veronica, Archie and Jughead have one of those overtly comic “What the Hell are _you_ doing here?” moments that’s absurd and unexpected enough to startle Jughead out of his train of thought. Seeing Betty again after the way she dumped him through Archie, seeing her here, like this, it kind of feels like he’s been catapulted into a parallel timeline and it leaves him reeling again. The hurts she put him through is a bitter sting, a knife that’s still being twisted. All he can do is stand there and stare dumbly at the girls, at least until Malachai speaks again.

“These are your bitches?”, Malachai hisses, furious all of a sudden.

“I beg your misogynistic pardon?”, Veronica bursts out, all righteous indignation and that’s just so _her_, Jughead doesn’t really know what to do with it.

All he knows, once the bewilderment has worn off, is that this is _not good._ They need to get out of here fast, before things escalate. Because even the four of them wouldn’t stand a change against the Ghoulies here and with what, what they did to him, what they did to him just to make a point, he doesn’t want to think about what they’d do to Betty or Veronica. And as betrayed, as he feels, Jughead would never be able to live with letting them get hurt like that.

So Jughead blurts out the first thing he can think of to distract Malachai from them, stands right next to Archie, shoulder to shoulder, between Malachai and the girls. “If you win, we’ll give you the White Wyrm. You can expand your drug-dealing horizon and upgrade out of this literal Hell hole.” He knows that he sounds desperate and that he’s probably putting too much on the table, raising the stakes too high, but he _is _desperate (and afraid) and he can’t see any other options. All he knows is that what little control he had over this situation is slipping through his fingers fast.

Malachai crowds into Jughead’s space, forcing Jughead to look up at him, towering over him, and shoves an accusing finger against Jughead’s chest. Jughead flinches at the contact, but grits his teeth and stands his ground. “We’ll take the Wyrm _and _Sunny Side Trailer Park.” Malachai licks his lips, basking in his power and stares Jughead down, a blatant challenge in his eyes. A challenge to refuse him, to test his superiority, the might he wields in this his realm.

“Jug-”, Archie starts, but Jughead cuts him off. “Fine.”, he grinds out through his teeth, breathing hard, adrenaline and fear a tight and painful rope around his neck.

Malachai raises his hands, gloating, victorious and looks down at Jughead. “We have a deal.”, he proclaims, magnanimous. Then the humor disappears from his features and he adds, “Now get your _skanks _and get the Hell out of here. Before I change my mind.”

~*~*~

Outside, with Archie busy talking to Veronica to figure out how this little unexpected meeting came to be and Betty keeping a careful distance, Jughead has a moment to debate with himself whether or not he’s going to be sick again. He can still see where he threw up in the dead grass the last time he was here. No one’s bothered to clean up the mess.

In the end, he wins the battle against his stomach and manages to keep his lunch down. That’s got to be worth something, he figures. And it is, because this, coming back here and facing Malachai and his army of dead, this was the hardest part. It’s not like the rest is going to be easy, exactly, but at least it’s going to be on familiar turf and on his terms. All he has to do is win a stupid race. Piece of cake compared to this, right?

As long as he doesn’t think about what will happen, if he loses, he might actually be able to do it.

Jughead takes a deep breath, wipes his clammy hands on his jeans and squares his shoulder. Time to move on to step two of the plan. Like, for instance, figure out where the Hell he’s gong to find a car that stands a chance against those souped up retro wheels the Ghoulies are so crazy about. And he figures, if he has something else to occupy himself with, eventually the hollowed out feeling in his gut won’t be so fucking hard to bear anymore.

~*~*~

Organizing the race and everything that goes along with it is enough to keep Jughead busy and focused, enough to not leave him with any time to think about anything else. And that’s a good thing. Jughead throws himself into it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. Even working with Betty is better than having to deal with his other troubles, with the phantom itch of Malachai underneath his skin or Tall Boy’s looming shadow or all of the what-ifs waiting to crash down on him in a moment of weakness. Always just one stuttered heartbeat, one shallow breath away.

They find a patch of for-sale farm land a couple miles outside of town, nice and secluded.

From there a route, a deserted stretch of road that leads across Herk Harvey Bridge to Dead Man’s Curve and then back.

People used to do races there, back in the day, or so Jughead gets told as he asks around, but they eventually stopped, when the body count got too high. Apparently, that’s how Dead Man’s Curve got its moniker.

Just the thing he’s looking for, Jughead thinks.

Next is the car. That one’s Archie’s idea and Archie is also the one who manages to talk Reggie into lending them his precious baby. But not before Archie swears on his guitar that he won’t let anything happen to it and promises to let Reggie be there for the race. Jughead doesn’t think he’s ever seen a man quite that in love with his ride. It’s actually kind of creepy.

They manage to talk (bribe) Old Man Miller into letting them use his auto shop to give the guts of Reggie’s car a much needed tune-up. ‘Cause it turns out that, while the exterior is kept meticulous beyond reproach, the heart of his ride could really use some extra love. ‘Not much going on there’, as Betty puts it.

Working with Betty is, to put it mildly, uncomfortable. Jughead still can’t forgive her for what she did to him, or better, what she used _Archie _to do to him. The one thing that could actually hurt him. He’d trusted her with _everything_ and she’d thrown it back at him, like it meant nothing. And even now, she refuses to give him a good reason for it.

He’s beginning to get the feeling that there may be more going on there than he knows. But even if that’s true and she had a good enough reason to break up with him, that doesn’t change that she decided to turn her back on him instead of coming to him for help. Instead of trusting him.

Either way, it’s all overshadowed by the fresh poison that’s twisting in his gut.

Time moves more slowly now. It’s mostly Betty working, with Jughead passing her the occasional tool, and his thoughts keep wanting to slip into dangerous waters. He keeps having to check himself, to reel himself back in before he can go places he can’t easily come back from.

He still feels a twinge of discomfort whenever he shifts his weight too quickly, a constant, punishing reminder and it makes his breath hitch every time. He needs something better than this to keep his mind from wandering.

~*~*~

Finishing preparations for the race takes them most of the rest of Saturday. It’s late, close to 11 pm when Jughead finally walks out of Riverdale’s Auto Shop. The race is set for noon tomorrow, like some kind of Western showdown and Jughead finds that oddly fitting. The doom and gloom of it, the gritty, ugly dramaturgy that makes him think of the John Wayne movies he used to watch with his dad when he was little. Always that one crucial moment of truth beneath the heat of the midday sun that decides the fate of the hero. Always life or death.

But Jughead has one last thing to take care of, before then, and this he has to do alone.

The White Wyrm looms in front of him, tall and imposing against the black of the night sky. It reminds Jughead of the old days, when he used to dread coming here for a different reason. When every trip to the bar meant his dad was so drunk he couldn’t get himself home and Jughead had to come pick him up. Back when he’d still thought the Serpents were a bunch of scumbags with no honor, who let teenagers drag their alcoholic fathers home on their own and didn’t give a fuck about anything but their shady business.

Things have changed since then, a lot actually. Coming here now, though, it stirs up the same queasy unease it did back then and Jughead hates it.

But, if he’s going to go through with his plan, he needs to do this. And now’s as good a time as any.

The parking lot in front of the bar is crowded with motorcycles and there are a few Serpents hanging around outside, smoking. They nod at Jughead as he walks past. Jughead may not hold any real power in the gang yet, but there’s one thing that Tall Boy was right about. Jughead _is_ F.P.’s son and that holds weight. Hopefully enough to pull this thing off.

He just needs to be quick and make his speech before he panics and loses his nerve or Tall Boy can stop him. If he’s even here and not hanging with his new buddies, the Ghoulies.

As expected, the White Wyrm is crowded, which serves Jughead’s purpose just fine. He can see Tall Boy lounging at the bar, tucked into a corner across the room from him and locked into an animated conversation with a couple of other older Serpents. Immersed, gesturing widely with a beer bottle in his right hand. Jughead’s eyes catch on the bottle in its thick-fingered grip and his breath hitches at the wave nausea that bubbles up out of no-where.

He pushes past it and forces himself to keep moving. If he stops now, he’ll won’t be able to get through this. It’s a dangerous line he’s towing and he can’t afford to slip up.

Once he’s reached the center of the bar where the big pool table stands solitary, he raises his voice enough to be heard across the music and the chatter.

“Serpents!”, he calls and bit by bit, conversations cease and heads turn his way. When the music cuts out and an eerie sort of silence falls over the place, all eyes on him, some curious, some bemused, Jughead goes on. He’s run through this in his head a hundred times. He can do it, he tells himself one last time. Words are his forte, after all.

“I know that, as of late, the Serpents have fallen on hard times. Your king, my father, is sitting behind bars, our ranks have been depleted and it seems as though the Northside is hounding us more than ever.”

He earns a couple of cheers at that, a couple of quiet murmurs of agreement and a lot of ill-tempered looks. It’s not outright rejection, they’re still waiting on what else he has to say, so that’s a good thing he supposes.

“Now, some of you may think, that an outright war with the Northside is inevitable. But I also know that some of you don’t want that. Those of you, who still remember my father’s vision for the Serpents and the peace he worked so hard to keep. Those of you, who still honor his leadership, remember everything he did for the Serpents, even if he can’t be with us now.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jughead catches the look on Tall Boy’s face. The incredulity and the anger, perched on the edge of his seat like he wants nothing more than to get up and shove Jughead’s words right back down his throat. Something’s still holding him back, though. Maybe he knows how bad it would make him look, if he attacked Jughead now.

“And of course,”, Jughead continues, heart racing. “You all know that the Ghoulies, honing in on our perceived weakness, are encroaching on our territory, looking to gut us while the picking is easy and expand their drug-dealing operation. One of the reasons the Northside is after us in the first place.”

“Which is exactly why we should be looking for new allies.”, Tall Boy chimes in, looking for an opening to twist things back on Jughead, but Jughead can’t let that happen.

He swallows down the fluttering anxiety and plows on. “Right. I don’t know if Tall Boy has told any of you about his plans, yet. Because he wants us to join ranks with the Ghoulies!”

A dismayed murmur runs through the gathered crowd. It gives Jughead hope, spurs him on.

“And would that really be so bad?”, Tall Boy chimes in again. “The Northside has declared war on us! It’s time we stood up to their tyranny and showed them that they can’t keep treating us like garbage, that they can’t keep blaming us for everything that goes wrong in this town! Haven’t we suffered enough? Joining ranks with the Ghoulies would give us the numbers we need to make it count!”

The volume of the chatter around them rises, the voices of those agreeing and those opposed mixing together to create a small uproar. Tall Boy _is _F.P.’s right hand man, has been for a long time and he still has a lot people in the Serpents willing to listen to him and his reasons.

“I can tell you exactly why that’s a horrible idea!”, Jughead almost shouts to make himself heard again. He doesn’t need to fake his agitation either. He can feel invisible hands pulling at his seams, waiting for him to unravel. “Because what Tall Boy is proposing is nothing short of a hostile takeover! If the Serpents join the Ghoulies, we would be outnumbered. The Serpents as they are now would cease to exist! We’d give up our autonomy, get pulled into the Ghoulies’ drug hustling, be reduced to dealing Jingle-Jangle on street corners, poisoning the Southside and dragging it further down. You know my dad never wanted that for the Serpents. Even back when Clifford Blossom was still running his drug empire, F.P. never let the Serpents be a part of that. And for good reason.”

“Well, F.P. isn’t here now.”, Tall Boy shouts right back, arms outstretched in a blatant challenge. “And since I’m his right hand man, the role of leadership falls to me. And I say, if we want to stand up to the Northside’s blatant oppression, we may need to make some sacrifices. But I promise it’ll be worth it once we’ve taken back what is rightfully ours! What other options do we have?”

“I can offer you one.”, Jughead lifts his own arms, not a challenge so much as a show of his cards. “I’ve challenged the leader of the Ghoulies to a street race tomorrow. If I win, the Ghoulies have agreed to back off, to leave the Serpents and our territory alone and to stop dealing Jingle-Jangle at Southside High. This is our chance to get rid of the Ghoulies for good and keep our integrity at the same time.”

“You did what?!”, Tall Boy barks out and the commotion really breaks loose then. People start talking over each other, raising their voices to be heard. Jughead can’t make out any one thing, just a sea of conflicting outbursts.

“Hey!”, Hogeye the bartender shouts over the mess of voices and it’s enough to make everyone quiet down again, if a little reluctantly. “Let the kid finish his speech.”

“Thank you.”, Jughead mumbles, then takes a deep, steadying breath and makes the last of his points. “What have we really got to lose here? If I lose the race tomorrow, what will happen is exactly what would happen if I’d never challenged Malachai in the first place. The Serpents join the Ghoulies, the Ghoulies take over, Tall Boy gets his will. But if I _do_ win, that’ll be our one chance to walk away from all of it, intact and as we’re supposed to be. They can’t keep the Serpents that were arrested during the raid on Southside High locked up forever. The charges are never going to stick, especially since the Ghoulies are the real culprits here. We’ll have our ranks replenished and we’ll be able to stand tall against whatever other challenges we need to face. And my father’s vision of the Serpents will live to see another day.”

“Let’s vote on it.”, Hogeye calls out and he’s met with a slew of affirmative murmurs, the crowd eager to settle the dispute.

“Everyone in favor of Jughead’s plan.”

As Jughead carefully holds his breath, Hogeye raises his hand, alone at first but soon followed by others. More and more of the Serpents joining in, until there’s all but a scant few left with their hands stubbornly held low. All of them standing with Tall Boy at the bar.

“All in favor of Tall Boy’s plans.”

The handful of Serpents around Tall Boy give their vote, even though they already know that they’ve lost and when Hogeye calls out Jughead’s victory, they angrily push their way through the crowd and out of the bar. Tall Boy with them.

And just like that, Jughead’s done it. This part of the battle, at least, is won. He lets out a shaky breath and sags to lean against the pool table, as soon as the music starts back up and attention is no longer centered on him. Jughead doesn’t really know how he feels about it. He should be elated, proud of himself, but instead all he feels is empty. Drained, exhausted. A bone deep kind of weariness. All he wants to do is go home, fall into bed and sleep like the dead for at least the next eight hours so that he can face tomorrow with enough strength to keep his head held high at least.

He gives out the details for tomorrow’s race and the invitation for anyone, who wants to to join them. The more Serpents are going to be there the better, especially if Malachai and the Ghoulies somehow get it into their heads to go back on their word.

Then, finally, Jughead steps out into the night. He takes am moment to re-adjust his beanie, pull it down to cover his ears against the soft chill. It’s a small comfort, but one he clings to fiercely. The worn wool feels good beneath the tips of his fingers.

His bike is parked two streets over, because he wanted some time to walk and prepare himself for what he had to do when he got here, so he takes off in that direction. The streetlamps with their eerie orange glow are an unreliable source of illumination, some flickering precariously, some gone dark entirely and there are a lot of dingy alleys along the way. Riverdale doesn’t exactly care much about investing in infrastructure or city upkeep when it comes to the Southside. Mayor McCoy is just as happy to let the Southside crumble and rot as she is to go after the people trying to make a living there.

But this is where Jughead spent the better part of his childhood and he knows these streets as well as he’s ever going to. Knows where it’s actually dangerous and where it just looks like it is.

So it does take him completely by surprise, when a tall shadowy figure steps out of the mouth of an alley just as he’s walking past it. Jughead freezes in mid-step and his heart misses a beat before picking back up at double speed. Two strong, thick-fingered hands grab onto the lapels of his Serpent’s jacket and haul him into the alley, before he has a chance to do anything.

Jughead’s back hits the crumbling brick wall that delimits the small courtyard behind it and his breath whooshes out of his lungs with the force of the impact.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing challenging the Ghoulies to a fucking _street race_, hm?”, Tall Boy snarls, crowding Jughead in until their noses are all but touching and Jughead gets hit with a repugnant puff of Tall Boys breath. Hot and moist and bitter, a mixture of stale beer and cold cigarette smoke and something vaguely spicy Tall Boy must have had for lunch.

Jughead reaches out to push back, to shove Tall Boy away, but Tall Boy looms over him like a giant, taller and broader and meaner than Jughead will ever be and the Serpent doesn’t budge. All Jughead can think, as Tall Boy slides one of his broad palms up to Jughead’s face to hold him still, fingers digging in painfully, is that he fucked up, he miscalculated and now he’s exactly where he was before. For a horrible moment Jughead feels like he can’t breathe at all. Like his lungs are filled with lead. Burning, useless clumps of tissue in his chest. There’s a sarcastic comeback lodged in the back of his throat like a physical thing, trapped there, choking him.

“You arrogant, little piece of shit. You think you can spend your whole life acting like you’re better than us until things go bad on you and you realize you need us after all? And then what? You just walk in and think you can start calling the fucking shots just because you’re F.P.’s son?”, Tall Boy spits, red-faced and so, so angry, using his grip on Jughead’s face to jostle him around. The back of Jughead’s head hits the cinder block with a dull thump and he finally remembers how to breathe. He desperately sucks in air through is nose, his mouth half covered by Tall Boys hand, heat radiating off of the other man in waves.

“I really thought you’d be smart enough to have learned your lesson, kid.”, Tall Boy leans in until his breath puffs against the shell of Jughead’s ear with each word and every muscle in Jughead’s body tenses with the anticipation of violence. “Maybe I should drag you back there right now. You sure as Hell don’t seem like you got the message.”

“You could.”, Jughead presses out through clenched teeth, and it’s so fucking hard to make his body cooperate when all he wants to do is curl up into himself, cower and beg and give up on any dignity he has left just to get away. “But you won’t.” Says it with a certainty he doesn’t feel at all, grasping at straws.

“And why is that, hm?”, Tall Boy squeezes Jughead’s cheeks harder, being mean about it, the callouses on his fingers rough against Jughead’s soft skin.

“Because, if you ever touch me again, maybe next time I’ll tell the Serpents how you just _sat there and watched_ while your new pals, the Ghoulies, sexually assaulted a minor.” Jughead has to force the words past his lips and they burn on his tongue like bile. Even in the near pitch dark of the alley Jughead can see the blood drain out of Tall Boy’s face. “Maybe I’ll tell them, that that kid wasn’t just a fellow Serpent, someone you were supposed to protect, but F.P. Jones’ son. How do you think they’d take that?”

Tall Boy lets go of Jughead so fast Jughead’s knees almost don’t support his weight, the wall at his back holding him up just so. Taking a step back and shoving an accusing finger against Jughead’s chest Tall Boy growls at him, “You wouldn’t, you little-.”

“Do you really want to take your chances?”, Jughead shoves Tall Boy’s hand away and meets his eyes in a challenge, fills it with everything he’s got left. “Who do you think’s got more to loose here? You or me?”

Tall Boy sneers at him, his hands balling into impotent fists. The shadows that fall across his face make him look fractured, like part of an abstract painting, a creature of darkness. All Jughead wants to do is shrink away from him, but he makes himself keep still and square his shoulders against the brick wall, grits his teeth against the way it makes him feel.

“Besides, if I lose tomorrow, you’ll get what you want anyway. And none of it will matter anymore.”, Jughead spits and raises his chin to meets Tall Boy’s gaze, refusing to look away, stomping down on the urge as hard as he can.

“True.”, Tall Boy concedes and doesn’t bother to hide the nasty smile that spreads across his face. “I hope you know there’s no way you’re winning tomorrow, Hell you can be grateful, if you get to walk away from it in one piece. And when you do, you’re life’s going to be a living Hell, I can promise you that much. Malachai’s a bit much, if you ask me, but he gets things done and he sure as Hell knows how to put on a show. Ever since Thursday night he won’t shut up about how cute you are when you’re crying.”

Jughead doesn’t know what he looks like just then, what the expression on his face is like, because he can hardly feel himself, but Tall Boy seems pleased enough with the effect of his words.

With one last belligerent shove at Jughead’s shoulder, Tall Boy turns around and walks away, leaving Jughead behind in the deserted alley. As soon as Jughead is sure he’s alone, he lets out a shuddering breath and sinks down along the brick wall, leather jacket scraping and catching on the cracks, until he’s sitting on the filthy ground. It smells like old piss and warm beer and the bitter tang of vomit, but Jughead doesn’t really care. He pulls up his knees, hides his face in his hands and curls into himself, makes himself as small as he can.

Hands sliding up until he can feel the familiar texture of his beanie under his fingers, he tells himself ‘it’s OK, you did it, you got through it, you’re OK’. Over and over, until it almost feels like he can breathe again. Even if a part of him knows with a horrible kind of certainty, that he might never really be ‘OK’ ever again.

~*~*~

Sunday morning, Archie comes by the trailer early to pick Jughead up. Archie’s driving his dad’s old truck and Jughead’s already sitting on the front steps waiting for him when Archie pulls up. The truck brings back memories. Jughead has sat in it more times than he can count throughout his childhood and it’s a little strange to see Archie behind the wheel now instead of Fred.

Archie turned 16 during the summer before Junior year, a few months before Jughead himself did, and Archie got his license right after. That was part of the reason they’d planned a road trip for the July 4th weekend, to celebrate the occasion. But thinking of that only makes Jughead think about how Archie ditched him that summer and all the things that happened after and that’s something he really doesn’t want to deal with right now.

He’s an awful, jittery bundle of nerves as it is. That weird kind of wired you only get when you’re truly exhausted but on enough caffeine to keep a small army going. Jughead didn’t really get any sleep after he got home last night. Too much whirling around in his head like a sordid little merry-go-round, keeping him up until the first rays of light began to flit in through the living room window and it didn’t make sense to try and go to bed anymore.

In an ill-fitted attempt to sort himself out, Jughead had tried writing, but that had spiraled out of control so fast he’d nearly flung his laptop across the room just to get away from it. The one thing he’d always been able to depend on failing him when he needed it most.

When Jughead climbs into the truck, Archie gives him a look, brows furrowed as he takes in Jughead’s state. Paler than usual, drawn and on edge, dark bruises underneath his eyes, hands only barely steady. Archie takes a breath, like he’s going to say something, but Jughead cuts him off quickly.

“Let’s just go.”, he says and watches Archie’s mouth thin and his eyes crinkle with worry. Jughead holds his breath, but eventually, Archie gives up and restarts the truck’s engine. They spend the 20 minute drive in silence, Jughead leaning away from Archie, forehead against the cool glass of the side window and watches first houses then fields blur past in the first light of dawn.

They meet up with Betty, Veronica, Kevin and Reggie at the abandoned Farm, like they’d planned. Reggie hands over the keys to his car reluctantly, but Archie gives him a _look_ and Reggie folds. It’s not like he can go back on his word now.

Jughead gets in on the driver’s side and takes a moment to admire the sleek interior. It’s well kept and expensive, real leather on the seats and on the steering wheel and Jughead likes how it feels beneath his hands. He doesn’t often allow himself to dream, to cling to unrealistic notions of ‘if’ and ‘someday’ and he’s not much of a car enthusiast either, but this once he thinks ‘_if I ever have the money, maybe I’ll spend it on something like this_’.

Archie climbs in next to him and they take the car out for a spin so that Jughead can get a feel for it. He doesn’t have his license yet, doesn’t have the money for it and no-one, who cares enough to jump in, but Jughead does know how to drive pretty well. He had to learn early, when his mom took Jellybean and skipped town and Jughead was the only one left to find his dad when he went out on another drunken bender and needed to be dragged home somehow. Jughead had taught himself with his dad’s old ford in the parking lot at the trailer park after dark. The same way he learned how to handle a motorcycle.

Reggie’s car is a lot fancier than his dad’s old ford, but it doesn’t take him long to get the hang of it.

He goes for a few rounds on the stretch of road they picked out for the race, gets a feel for the twists and curves, the bridge that’s only wide enough to let one car cross at a time. This is what finally manages to calm him down a little. The speed, the power of the engine thrumming beneath him, purring along like an overgrown kitten. The freedom of it.

The idea that he could just not take that turn back to the farm, head for the highway instead with Archie sitting next to him. Hit the gas and not stop until they run out of fuel, Riverdale nothing more than a pale, fading memory somewhere at the back of their minds. What’s Riverdale ever done for him, Jughead thinks. After everything this town has taken from him, Jughead shouldn’t feel like he still owes it anything.

But he does. Not the town so much as the people in it. Or some of them at least. Jughead abandons his useless daydream and heads back. It’s almost time. And just like that, the perpetual tightness in his chest is back and breathing becomes a conscious effort again.

He can feel Archie’s eyes on him all the while.

~*~*~

They get back just in time to witness the arrival of a slew of Serpents and Ghoulies alike. The Ghoulies make an odd progression amidst the Serpent’s motor circles, a line of tuned up old-timers with too much chrome and all a slick, polished black or firehouse red. Sculls dangling form rear-view mirrors and stylized, upturned crossed painted onto hoods. Malachai, in the lead, pulls up next to Reggie’s parked car, side-window rolled down and one hand dangling out of it provocatively. He’s wearing a finger-less black leather gloves with so many rivets on it it almost looks like a fucking disco ball.

Malachai gets out of his car and Jughead can see that him and the rest of his Ghoulies are decked out in full this time, all geared up to have some real fun. Excessive use of eyeliner, piercings in questionable places, black and white scull make-up, seas of thorn-shaped rivets on leather and chains all around. Somewhere in the background, Jughead can see Tall Boy pull up on his motorcycle.

Apparently, it’s a party.

As soon as the cars and motorcycles are parked, people start unloading booze and handing out red plastic cups. Ignoring Jughead for now, Malachai heads over to Tall Boy, who’s milling about with a group of Malachai’s goons and grabs a drink for himself. Looks like he doesn’t think he’ll need to be sober for the race. Maybe that’ll work in Jughead’s favor. Or maybe it’ll just make Malachai that much more volatile and unpredictable. Malachai catches Jughead looking and winks at him, holding up his red cup in salute and Jughead snaps his gaze away so fast he almost makes himself dizzy.

Jughead startles, pulled out of his train of thought when Archie touches his elbow to get his attention. He tries to cover it up with annoyance. “Gheez, what are doing? Trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Sorry.”, Archie looks sheepish, eyes moving over the crowd that’s gathering around them before settling back on Jughead. “Look, Juggie, are you going to be alright?”

Jughead glances around sharply. Archie is standing with him by the driver’s side of Reggie’s car and the rest of their friends, or better the rest of _Archie’s _friends, are milling about by Archie’s dad’s truck. Apparently word got around and a few more Riverdale High students decided to show up. Mostly members of the football team and the Rivervixens. Jughead can make out Cheryl’s distinctive wave of red curls all the way from across the parking lot.

None of them are close enough to overhear their conversation. Except maybe for Betty, who’s bent over the open hood of Reggie’s car making some last minute adjustments to the engine, but she seems preoccupied enough.

Jughead goes for his default defense mechanism, sarcasm, his walls coming up automatically. “Peachy.”, he throws back at Archie, plastering a fake grin onto his face. The motion makes his cheeks ache, like he hasn’t actually smiled for long enough that his muscles protest the foreign exercise now. It’s a stupid thought, but it still serves to sour Jughead’s mood further.

“Don’t be an asshole.”, Archie says softly, brows pulling together and still holding onto Jughead’s arm. Despite himself, Jughead can’t help but find some small comfort in the solidity and warmth of Archie’s palm, seeping through even the sleeve of his leather jacket seemingly effortless. Even when they were little, Archie’s body temperature was always slightly reminiscent of a space heater. The familiarity of it is bittersweet.

“Sorry.”, Jughead sighs, the fake grin falling away. Underneath it all, the nerves and the jumpiness, the cold knot of fear in his stomach that hasn’t untangled itself since this all started, he’s just so fucking tired. Tired of the bruises and the restlessness and the hits that just keep coming, the way they’ve been for as long as he can remember. Ever since his dad lost his job at Andrew’s Construction and then they lost the house on the Northside and everything just kind of spiraled out into free fall. “You know how I operate, Archie.”

“Yeah, I do.” Archie fixes him with one of his _looks_, like he’s been chewing on something for a while and he’s finally reached the point where he can’t keep quiet about it any more. Jughead finds himself dreading whatever’s going to come out of Archie’s mouth next.

“Which is why I can _see_ that you’re not OK, Jug. I know that something has to have happened between when I warned you about the raid on Southside High and when we talked Friday morning. You’ve been weird and on edge ever since. And I was kind of waiting for you to say something on your own, but it’s obvious that you’re not talking to me and I hate that we’re like this. I’m worried about you, Jug. Please tell me what’s going on?”

“Jesus, Arch.”, Jughead grinds his teeth and hisses at Archie, like the snake that he is now, and yanks his arm out of Archie’s grip a little too forcefully. He almost overbalances, but catches himself on the side of the car. “You’re bringing that up _now? Really?_ This is, like, the worst possible time ever!”

Before Archie can say anything else, Tall Boy’s booming voice saves the day and Jughead is probably going to spend nights lying awake contemplating the irony of _that_, but what the Hell.

“Everybody get ready! The race is about to start!”

Jughead pushes past Archie to get to the driver’s side door as Betty closes up the hood and gives him a tight-lipped thumbs-up. Time to get the show on the road, as they say.

Archie hurries to get in on the passenger side, perhaps a little worried Jughead might leave him behind, after all, while Malachai and one of his goons climb into Malachai’s ride. Twin engines roar to life simultaneously and they take off towards the road sign just outside the parking lot that will serve as both start and finish line. They pull up next to each other, one car on either lane, the crowd of onlookers not far behind. Jughead tries not to give himself too much time to think as he climbs out of the car one more time.

He stands to face Malachai near the center line of the road that separates their cars like a surgical stripe, motors idling. The sun is a hot circle in the blue sky above them, burning down relentlessly and blinding both of them a little.

Malachai steps close enough that Jughead has to tilt his head back to look up at him. It’s a power play and Jughead has to grit his teeth against the urge to step back as Malachai invades his personal space like it means nothing, that familiar unhinged grin plastered onto his face. The demon king, in his element.

“We race over Herk Harvey Bridge to Dead Man’s Curve and then back here. Whoever passes the sign first, wins.”, Jughead lays out the plan as succinctly as he can, for once not in the mood for a lot of big words. He wants to get this over with, plain and simple. His gums ache and his teeth itch with the thrumming current of nervousness that hums beneath his skin. There’s too much at stake, too high a price to pay, if this doesn’t go his way.

And here they are now, the moment of truth seconds away.

Malachai looks like he knows it, too.

He takes Jughead’s offered hand in a tight grip, just the wrong side of painful, and uses it to pull Jughead in. A show of strength that has Jughead stumbling forward, breath hitching. Malachai lifts his other hand and wraps it around the back of Jughead’s neck, grasp like a vice, leather against skin, the tips of his fingers slipping beneath the hem of the beanie and into Jughead’s hair. Malachai leans in until his mouth is right next to Jughead’s ear. Intimate, unwanted, just the way it felt when Malachai did it the first time and Jughead pulls against his grip. Fights it but can’t get away.

“You’re going to lose today.”, Malachai croons, words dripping with malice, breath hot against Jughead’s neck, making him shiver. “And as soon, as you cross that finish line after me, I’ll pull you out of your borrowed ride and I’ll bend you over the hood of my car with the engine still hot and thrumming and I’ll hold you down while every Ghoulie here takes their turn fucking you. Right here, in the open, in front of all of your friends, we’ll make you scream until your voice gives out and we’ll show everyone exactly who you belong to now. And after that, I’ll take you home with me and you can be my pretty little pet. I’ll even feed you and take you out for a walk every now and then, if you behave yourself. It’ll be fucking perfect.”

Jughead jerks in Malachai’s grip, sucking in air in ragged, shocky little breaths as he pushes against Malachai’s chest with his free hand. Uses all the force he can muster to get Malachai _away from him_. It works, but only because Malachai lets it. The leader of the Ghoulies lets go of Jughead’s hand and nape and takes a step back, arms outstretched in mock surrender, grinning broadly at him.

“May the best man win.”, Malachai proclaims for everyone to hear and turns around with a flourish to get back into his car.

Jughead just stands there for an awkward moment, trying to remember how to breathe, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side. He’s trembling, he can feel it slither through his system with every shaky exhale and he closes his eyes against the onslaught of unwanted emotion, against the wave of fear, almost panic, that surges up to drown him in it.

The honk of Malachai’s horn startles Jughead out of his state. He pulls in a shuddering breath and stumbles back to the car. The door clanging shut after him is a relief, another physical barrier between himself and Malachai. He can do this, he tells himself as he pulls on his own finger-less leather gloves with unsteady hands.

Archie reaches over to touch him again, the look on his face so earnest it hurts, but Jughead pulls back to avoid him. He wants to lean into Archie instead so badly, take what comfort he can from Archie being here with him, but he can’t. He needs to keep focused.

“Jug...”, Archie starts.

“What?”, Jughead bites back, unable to make his voice sound kind.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”, Archie looks at him like this is important, like it’s something Jughead really needs to hear. Jughead shoves Archie’s hovering hand back to Archie’s side of the car and cuts him off again.

“Not now Archie.”, he bites out and clenches his hands around the wheel, revs the engine to warm it up properly. There’s only room for one thing on his mind right now and that’s winning this fucking race. He doesn’t care what it takes him, it’s the only option he’s got.

Cheryl saunters out between the two cars, red scarf in hand, billowing in the soft breeze like a flag. “Engines warm and ready, gentlemen?”, She calls out with her usual taste for the dramatic.

Jughead closes his eyes, takes a deep steadying breath, pulls up all of his focus, hones into the here and now and opens them again. He gives Cheryl a thumbs-up and waits for her to give the sign.

She raises her arms, scarf in hand and then bows her body back in one smooth, fluid motion. The scarf glides crimson through the air, like the silent promise of bloodshed.

Jughead hits the gas and him and Malachai race off nose to nose, tires screeching across the hot asphalt.

It almost feels like time slows down as they build up speed. Racing along each other, one of them gaining an inch only for the other to pull up and take it back. Malachai hoots out of his open window and yanks his steering wheel around. Rams the side of his car against Reggie’s and Jughead has to jerk the wheel in the other direction hard to keep the car from careening off the road. Both him and Archie gasp at the impact, Archie clutching wildly at the roof handle on the passenger side to keep from being tossed around.

They share a quick, panicked glance, even though Jughead thinks this sort of craziness shouldn’t surprise him. Instead of cowering at the prospect of Malachai hitting them again, Jughead taps down harder on the gas, catapulting them forward.

They’re coming up fast on the bridge, Malachai still a nose-length ahead of them and if Jughead doesn’t make it across first he’s as good as lost the race already. Short of some sort of miracle.

“Jughead, the bridge.”, Archie presses out next him.

“I know, I got this.”, Jughead bears down, makes it count, the gas pedal scraping against the metal of the car’s flooring. He can do this, he can.

“We’re not gonna make it!”, Archie breathes as Jughead pulls up level with Malachai, not letting up, the bridge racing towards them at a breakneck speed. And if neither of them falls back soon they’re going to have to pull four bodies out of two twisted hunks of metal after they smash into each other at full speed at the mouth of the bridge. Jughead doesn’t give an inch. He _can’t._

“We’re both going to crash on that bridge!”

“The Serpents are joining the Ghoulies over my dead body, Archie!”, Jughead leans forward in his seat, the terrible feeling that this is the one moment it’s all come down to pulling at his gut like an anchor. Adrenalin is running so high he doesn’t even care any more if they crash. It would still be better than the alternative, than the prospect of _loosing_.

“Sorry, Jug, but I’m not down for those terms.”

Before Jughead has a chance to digest the words, Archie reaches down between them and jerks up the hand break. Tires blocking out of no-where, the car careens sideways on the road, screeching to a stuttering halt in the middle of the street. Burning rubber fogs the air as Jughead tries to process what the fuck just happened, Malachai racing across the bridge ahead of them. A blur of cherry-red doom zapping around the corner and out of sight.

Then it all comes crashing down, every word Malachai whispered into his ear, every promise he made neon bright slams into him like the swing of a sledge hammer. Panicking, unable to breathe, Jughead tears open the driver’s side door and runs out into the road, towards the bridge, like he can somehow catch up to Malachai on foot, even though he knows with a gut wrenching certainty that it’s over.

Archie catches up to him and Jughead spins around, focuses his incredulity and rage on him instead. He grabs the lapels of Archie’s stupidly bright letterman jacket and shakes him hard enough to jar his own bones.

“Why would you do that?!”, Jughead shouts, unable to wrap his mind around Archie’s betrayal. Archie is supposed to be the one steady, _good _thing in Jughead’s life. Jughead’s unwavering belief in Archie is something thing he can’t escape, regardless of how often Archie turns his back on Jughead. And here they are again, Archie robbing him of the one chance he had to make things right, to put an end to this hellish nightmare. You’d think Jughead would have learned his lesson by now, but for some reason, always the glutton for punishment, he keeps coming back for more again and again. Because, if he doesn’t have Archie, what else is there?

Archie takes a hold of Jughead in turn, a useless attempt at steadying him. “You need to trust me on this, Jug.”

There’s a retort rising up in the back of Jughead’s throat like bile, but it’s cut off by the wail of sirens in the distance. Giving Archie one more reeling look of disbelief, Jughead turns on his heels and runs towards the sound, Archie following a few steps behind, calling out for him to stop.

Jughead comes to a skittering halt, when he rounds the next bend and sees Malachai’s red retro ride pulled up in front of a road block of cop cars. Sheriff Keller right at the center of a band of his deputies, sirens flaring.

Archie reaches Jughead’s side moments later, pulling at his arm to get him moving in the opposite direction. “Come on. We need to get out of here!”

As if in a trance Jughead lets himself be pulled away.

~*~*~

They scramble back into Reggie’s car with Archie going for the driver’s side and Jughead too out of it to protest. He feels like someone just kicked the ground right out from under his feet and now he’s reeling and he doesn’t know what to cling to anymore.

When they get back to the farm’s parking lot, the crowd that had been gathered there is already in wild disarray. Scattering every which way, tires kicking up clouds of dust as their cars and bikes roar to life, startled into chaotic flight by the blaring sirens.

As soon as Jughead gets out of the car, Tall Boy is on him, red-faced and foaming at the mouth, slinging insults. “You won’t join up with the Ghoulies but you’ll get in bed with the cops?! Where’s the honor in that, you pretentious little brat?! Do you have any idea what you just did?!”

Jughead raises his hands to shield himself against Tall Boy’s onslaught, but Archie is there in a heartbeat. He’s pushing himself between Tall Boy and Jughead, taking on the Serpent himself. “_I _called the cops, Jughead didn’t know anything about it!”

“You did _what_?!” Jughead can’t wrap his head around it, refusing to believe, even now, that Archie would do something like that. Would do something so incredibly fucking stupid and not even warn him beforehand. Blowing the race is one thing, but getting the cops involved is a whole ‘nother level of betrayal. Jughead feels like a clay statue. Crumbling at the edges, losing chunks of himself.

The sirens get louder, like Keller and his men know exactly where to look for the rest of them and it’s enough to get Tall Boy moving. “This isn’t over!”, the Serpent calls out as he makes for his bike, index finger raised and pointing accusingly.

Archie is pulling at Jughead’s arm again, dragging him towards Fred’s truck. Jughead stumbles along awkwardly, doesn’t even put up a fight when Archie manhandles him into the passenger seat because Jughead’s not moving fast enough.

The whole drive back is a blur of silent fury and incredulity, Jughead’s head swimming with the impotency of it all. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry at Archie. Or this afraid.

As soon as the truck pulls to a stop next to his trailer, Jughead yanks open the passenger’s side door and storms out of the car. He’s banged through the front door, stomping through the living area, when Archie catches up with him, stopping him with a hand around his elbow.

“Jughead, wait! At least let me explain.”, Archie begs, eyes wide and beseeching, unwilling to let go of Jughead even as he tries to twist out of his grip, half turned to continue running. Where to, Jughead has no idea. All he knows is that he needs to keep moving somehow.

“You called the fucking cops, Archie! You blew my one chance at saving the Serpents from the Ghoulies! I _trusted you!_”, Jughead is shouting again. The walls of the trailer are thin and the front door is still wide open, but he’s too riled up to care who might hear them.

“But the Ghoulies are gone. Their leaders got arrested together with the rest of them, who were at the race. They won’t be a problem anymore.” And, oh, Archie actually sounds like he fucking believes that.

“You have no idea, do you? How long do you think they’re going to stay behind bars, Arch?! A month? Three? They’ll be back out in no time! And do you know what they’ll want on the other side?”, Jughead shoves at Archie’s chest, hard. “They’re going to want _your_ head on a stick, _all of ours_!” If Jughead thought it’d been bad before, that would be nothing compared to when Malachai got his hands on them after this.

Archie lets go of Jughead in favor of raising his arms to gesticulate between them as he speaks, agitated. “What was I supposed to do, Jug? Let you kill yourself in that stupid race? Let them just get away with what they did?”

“What?”, Jughead feels the blood drain out of his face so fast it makes him dizzy, white noise filling up his head and chasing away any coherent thought. There’s _no way_ Archie means what he thinks. Archie’s broad hands land on Jughead’s shoulders, steadying him.

“That’s what I was trying to talk to you about earlier.”, Archie’s voice goes soft, the hands on Jughead’s shoulders squeezing in a clumsy attempt at comfort. “It’s like I said, it’s obvious that you’re not OK. And I’m not stupid. The way you were around Malachai, the way he was with you. It’s not like you to lose your head like that. You’re scared of him, Jughead. Just – just tell me what happened, so I can help. _Please_.”

“No.”, Jughead screws his eyes shut and shakes his head helplessly. He can feel the lump in his chest expanding, rising up into his throat to choke him. He can feel the tell tale pressure behind his eyes that lets him know his body’s about to betray him. He doesn’t want this, any of it.

“Talk to me, Juggie.” Archie’s palms slide up the sides of Jughead’s neck to cup his jaw, guitar callouses catching at his skin, but still so soft, so gentle that it fucking _hurts._

Jughead circles his hands around Archie’s wrists, to pull him away probably, but instead he ends up clinging to Archie. The heat that Archie radiates soaks into him and makes him want to step closer instead of away.

Still, he shakes his head again, unable and unwilling to put into words what Malachai did, unable to give Archie what he wants. Moisture clots up his lashes, sticks them to his cheeks and his chest is heaving, he’s fighting it so hard.

Archie curses quietly and then pulls Jughead into an actual embrace, arms wrapping around him tightly. Jughead hesitates for a moment pressed against the solid warmth of Archie’s chest, caught off guard. Then gives in and hugs back, his hands fisting into the back of Archie’s stupid jacket and holding on for dear life. His breath hitches out of him in something that sounds too much like a sob and Archie makes a comforting noise against the side of his neck, runs a hand across his back.

They don’t do this anymore, Jughead thinks wildly as he’s coming apart at the seams. He’s been holding himself together by the skin of his teeth but this, _Archie,_ is breaking him down like it’s nothing.

They stopped really, honestly hugging each other when they both hit puberty properly. When people started giving them funny looks and murmuring behind their backs about how unusually close they were. Archie being the first to cave under the pressure of expectation and pushing away when Jughead would have held on, never one to care too much about what people thought of him.

And somehow, the physical distance had brought with it a new sort of emotional distance, one that grew and festered, Archie pulling away from him bit by bit until it all culminated into the events of last summer.

But Archie isn’t pulling away now, he’s holding on just as tightly as Jughead is and Jughead can’t help but think that everything would be alright, if they could just stay here like this. Nothing but the warm circle of Archie’s arms around his shoulders, firm, real, and the rest of the world can just go fuck itself.

That’s not how it works, though, Jughead thinks, chest tight and burning, shocky little breaths hitching out of him, soaking wet patches into the shoulder of Archie’s jacket. Archie is going to let go eventually and Jughead will have to figure out how to put himself back together afterwards. He’s going to have to find a way to get through tomorrow and the day after that, how to be part of a gang that has Tall Boy in it, how to prepare for the battles that still need to be fought. And most of it, he’s going to have to do alone.

Because Archie has enough going on himself at the moment, has his own worries and his own life to keep him busy and they’re not even going to the same school anymore, living on different sides of town. They’re still friends, Jughead will never be strong enough or mean enough to deny Archie or himself that, no matter how many times Archie turns his back on him. But they won’t be able to return to those easy, worry-free childhood years when there was only ever “Archie and Jughead” instead of “Archie” and “Jughead”, no matter how much either of them want to.

For the moment though, Jughead lets himself cling to Archie like it’s the last thing he has left in the world.

~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit**
> 
> I have a tumblr (yay..). It's not particularly interesting since I hardly ever post or share anything (I'm social media shy...), but I'm always glad to chat, if you wanna drop by.  
Find me here [yukichouji](https://yukichouji.tumblr.com/)


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